Reason Breeds Insanity

a can of beer becomes
an AM-FM transistor
radio with a video
screen, all put together
to be lifted

to the eyes and tasted,
collage after collage,
formally eloquent or
laced with a hard core,
trendaciously sensual,

himself withdrawing as
he reveals, low-profiling
as he faces full on. And
since style without
content is death

Style without content is death.
No poem will come.
No death will come.
To come is death.
Come to death.
Petite morte.
Little death. Style without content.
Be content without style.
No poem will come.
Death will come.
Come. Death. Style. Content.

Style without content is death.

You come inside
my tomblike womb
but no babies grow there.

Your fetid sauce pools
in my pool.
I find my smile
drifting away on a sea.
I see
you and who
you are.

Your slipstick shaft
carries fluid virus
stylizes masses—
its content infects me.

But the disease stops here.
Without style death is content.

yesterday (Jack Hirschman):
the wars drugs on, die after die,
soldyeahs and shopped suichives mock
an ignomanyus fear of socult exisdunce
and Jam Juice tearns over
in his tome.

today (Jack Hirschman):
When I was
student young
one day the
Kerouac way

suddenly was
felt far and near
like an eruption
of the American

moment…

A reflection on

foremothers and forefathers.

We all need
all of them
to look back to
to look up to
to challenge us.

We need to see
how they saw
we need to see
why they fought
we need to see
who they made us
become.

Kerouac Dickinson Ginsberg
Ferlenghetti Addonizio Baraka
Plath Hughes Hejinian
Sanchez Poe Walker

They are who I am becoming.
I am becoming them
with a fresh skin
in a new time
through my process.

they were shat up from

I’ve been spat upon
but never shat upon.

Was I shat up from
or spat up from?

Can I be begun
from shat or spat?